Page 149 of Ewan

He talked to his men several times, but he sat at the bar for most of the time, alone, barely touching his drink.

When my job was done, I received my pay and went to the back, where I showered––something I would have never done if the boss was in the club––and put my clothes on.

We just walked out of the club, looking like two people who came together for some fun and were about to go home.

He hasn’t touched me this evening, and now I’m thinking, we’re probably going home, he’ll drop me off, and that will be it.

The car engine purrs as he steers his ride out of the parking lot.

“Motel again?” he asks unexpectedly, displaying absolute control over his emotions, not looking at me.

I study his profile.

“Are you in the mood for some anonymous filthy sex?” I ask, and a smile tugs at his lips.

“I’m in the mood for sex with you. Bonus points if it’s filthy and anonymous.”

I laugh.

And he turns right at an intersection.

“I have a better motel in mind,” he says.

“By better you mean...?”

“We can fuck in the shower,” he says, and I lean back in my seat with my cheeks burning and a tinge of pleasure swirling between my thighs.

“Aren’t you hungry?” I ask, looking out the window.

“We’ll order food,” he says. “They have a diner nearby. What are you in the mood for?”

“French fries and steak. You?”

“Same.”

He takes another turn, and we soon enter a parking lot. The motel looks like a cabin and it’s prettily decorated with lights and Christmas wreaths.

“It looks nice,” I said.

He says nothing, only pulls his car to a stop, and fishes out his phone. Ordering the food, he climbs out before vanishing inside the main building.

I stare at the lit windows, waiting for him to return, when my phone hums.

My eyes tilt down, and my mouth falls open.

“What is wrong with her?” I mutter to myself, taking the call. “Yes, Mrs. Eisenhower. Is everything all right?” I ask, tense.

My neighbor has never called me without a reason. These calls have always been reserved for emergencies.

She knows that, so this must be something important.

“Listen…” she starts, all important. “I’d never call you at this time of night, but your ex is pounding on your door, and I think he’s drunk.

Um, what?

“My ex. You mean Joachim?”

“Yes.”

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